


The House on the Cliff

by Adoxography



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: General Canadian Gothic, Horror, M/M, Maritime Gothic, non-linear storytelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-05-04 03:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14583960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: At the door the creature scratches, begging to be let in.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It’s The Exorcist, so eventually I was going to attempt to write something actually scary. The timeline is going to seem pretty wonky, but trust me that it’s intentional. I chose not to use page breaks to indicate any sort of location shift so if you read something that doesn’t seem to fit with what you were just reading, I didn’t accidentally copy paste from the wrong part of the fic, it was for stylistic reasons. Hopefully it works! 
> 
> Currently have about 10k ish written for this. I’m going to try and keep it under 25k but we shall see where it goes. I’m posting the Prolouge as a bit of a teaser while I get the rest of the story in a readable order. Let me know what you think!

_Winter awakens all my sorrow;_  
Now these leaves grow barren.  
Often I sigh and sadly mourn  
When it enters into my thought  
Regarding this world’s joy:  
How it goes all to nought!

_Now it is, and now it isn’t,_  
As if it had never been, indeed!  
What many a man says, true it is:  
All passes except God’s will;  
We all shall die,  
Though we dislike it.

_All that seed men bury unripe;_  
Now it withers all at once.  
Jesus, help that this be known,  
And shield us from hell,  
For I know not whither I’ll go,  
Nor how long here dwell.  


_Wynter Wakeneth Al My Care_ , Translation by Susanna Greer Fein 

 

Tomas wakes alone and unable to think of why it feels unexpected. He licks his dry, cracking lips, and tastes blood. The room is whitewashed plaster with rusty watermarks. The window is too far away to see out of entirely, but the light streaming through the wide open shutters is dull and grey. The metal bed frame screeches as he sits up, the mattress sagging. He is also freezing. The blanket, or the mattress, or perhaps both, smell of mildew and feel damp. On the far side of the room, a door with flaking white paint stands ever so slightly ajar. On the remaining wall there is a fireplace where dying embers glow orange.

“Mouse?” he calls. No reply, no footsteps, only the low whistle of the wind fighting its way inside.

His neck itches. He wears a cream coloured woolen cable knit sweater on top of flannel pajamas. Despite the care he must have taken selecting his sleepwear, he neglected to put on socks, so when his feet touch the icy floorboards, he hisses through his teeth. The wind cuts through his layers like they were nothing and he realizes the unshuttered window has actually been flung wide open. Under the sill, a small pile of snow has collected, and around it, a puddle large enough that Tomas is forced to step into it to close the shutters. Outside it is snowing hard enough that it is difficult to see much further than the fence, even though he is on the second floor. In the distance, he can see the outline of what might be trees and over the sound of the wind, he can hear something that sounds like thunder dashing against—waves, they’re waves dashing against the cliffside. He takes in deep lungfuls of frigid air and smells the sharp tang of the ocean.

He closes the shutters and reaches over his head to tug the window closed. The thin, single pane glass rattles in its wooden frame; its peeling white paint matches the bedroom door. Without the daylight coming through, the room plunges into darkness until his eyes adjust to the slivers of light coming through the cracks in the shutters.

His feet have started to go numb standing in a puddle of melted snow so cold that stepping back onto dry floorboards feels hot on his soles. He grabs the blanket from the bed, wrapping it around his shoulders before stepping out into the hallway.

The hallway is lit by a porthole window above the stairs. It is narrow and painted a grey blue so familiar it drives him mad that he can’t place it. Other than the door he just came out of there are four others; a linen cupboard that has the same chilly mildew scent as his blanket, a bathroom with a claw-foot bathtub and no shower head, and two other bedrooms nearly identical to the one he came out of. One only has a rusty metal bed frame, while the other has a wide mattress on the floor stripped bare. What all the rooms have in common, though, is that they are painted white, with the same ancient, warped floorboards, and that they are empty.

There are light switches in most of the rooms, but the only one with a light actually installed is the bathroom and it appears to either be burnt out, or the electricity is not running. In both bedrooms, the windows have been flung open like in his room. Bracing himself against the cold, Tomas quickly shutters and closes both, praying there is a thermostat somewhere so he can start to warm up.

With chattering teeth, he descends the stairs to the ground floor and finds it just as empty. The entire floor is an open U-shape divided by the stairs. One side has a kitchen with wooden cupboards painted the same blue-grey as the upstairs hallway. The paint has worn away in places and the white walls have food stains from years of use and abuse. Tomas’ heart sinks when he sees the stove--black, iron, and wood burning. It doesn’t give him much hope for heat or electricity in the rest of the house.

There is a kitchen table with no chairs near the front door. On the other side of the stairs is the living room with an empty fireplace filled with grey ash. There is no furniture other than a green sofa with a broken leg; it leans pathetically and droops in the middle. They never sit there. He finds no thermostat, but there is a stack of dry wood, newspapers, and kindling by the hearth alongside a matchbox decorated with a red bird.

The last thing he checks is the front door, but it is locked and he needs a key to open it. The back door coming off the kitchen is the same. The window in the door is covered in frost and he can see less out of it than he could from the upstairs window. He has no intention of leaving the relative safety of the house barefoot in his pajamas with the snow this heavy, but it makes him uneasy that his exits have been blocked, intentionally or not.

With little to do but get colder, Tomas sets about getting the fire started. He stacks the wood in a pyramid like Marcus had shown him once, stuffing kindling and bundled newspaper underneath. He is about to shove another handful of newspaper into the fireplace when sees the name on the next paper in the stack, _Toronto Star_. He looks at the paper he is currently cannibalizing and sees its name, The _Chronicle Herald_. Clawing through the rest of the stack, he finds the majority have this name, with only a handful being _Toronto Star_ , or _Globe and Mail_. While he is unfamiliar with the names, and the headlines mean nothing to him, they do tell him he is either in Canada, or else someone wants him to think he is. The dates range from July 2016 to January of 2018. January… has it been so long? He puts them aside to skim later, but sacrifices the ones he’s already crumpled so he doesn’t freeze to death before he can remember how the hell he got here and why he is alone now.

It takes several attempts and more newspaper than he would like, but the larger logs finally catch and warmth finally starts to chase away the chill surrounding him. He thinks to move the broken couch, but decides against it, instead grabbing the cushions to throw on the floor by the hearth. He warms his hands and feet and finally, he stops seeing his breath when he exhales.

He is jostled awake when his head slams into the passenger side window where he’d been resting only moments before. He groans and blinks until the light no longer blinds him and he can see the road ahead, a small residential street they are tearing through much faster than the speed limit.

“Marc—” He sees the woman in the passenger seat and presses his lips shut before starting again. “Mouse, you’re going too fast.”

She glances over at him, back at the road, and then back at him. She slams on the brakes before even checking the rearview mirror.

“Thank Christ you’re awake,” she says, unbuckling her seatbelt so she can take his face in her hands, feeling his forehead with her wrist. “You’re too hot. How are you feeling?” Her voice is as sharp as ever. Everything she says sounds like an irritated demand, but Tomas knows her well enough now to know better than to take it personally.

“I’m awake. I’m fine,” he replies, brushing her hands away. She feels too close, everything is too close and too bright. Mouse looks worse than he feels, her hair stringy and tied back in a greasy ponytail, her face pale and her eyes bloodshot. “Are you alright?”

Mouse frowns, leaning back towards the driver’s side. She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “Yes, I just haven’t slept yet.”

“How long have we been driving?” The light looks like early morning, too pale to be sunset. Nothing looks familiar, but he has gotten quite used to that since leaving Chicago six— eight—no, he rubs the bridge of his nose. He can feel something building behind his eyes, though he’s not sure what.

“About nine hours, give or take,” she tells him. “Do you know where we are?” Her gentle tone makes him more nervous than her usual harsh demeanor. He can’t lie, so instead, he shrugs and smiles.

“How could I? I’ve been asleep.”

She curses. “Damnit, Tomas!”

He covers his eyes with the heel of his palms. The sky is so bright. He breathes slowly through his nose. He should know this, he has to know this, it’s important.

“Tomas, you need to wake up,” she commands, hand shaking his shoulder.

“I am awake!” he snaps. The light is seeping through his fingers and it’s making his eyes ache.

“Tomas!”

“Marcus?” He tears his hands from his face and the heat from the fire makes his cheeks burn. His head whips around. He’d sounded so close… but he is alone, alone, and the house still sighs with the wind.


	2. Another Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas begins to search for answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait a week before posting this but considering the day we all had yesterday I figured if anyone was waiting on it, it would only be fair to send it your way. Edited, as always, by Shell_and_Bone who I would probably die without.

As the fire dies, so does the light. The snow outside has yet to stop falling; the storm rages on and there is no moonlight to be seen through the swirling white winter sky. No one is coming. Tomas has been unable to find a clock, so his only indication of time is the flickering embers in the fireplace. 

He has not fallen back asleep or had anymore dreams. As he sits by the fire, he holds his head in his hands trying to remember. He feels thoughts just below the surface, clawing at his skull like a rat eating its way out of a corpse.

Marcus… He had heard his voice as if it were cutting through a thick fog to find him. But Marcus had left… and Mouse, where is Mouse? She promised to take care of him, hadn’t she? Tomas feels it, but he cannot remember her ever saying those words aloud. 

He thinks of lighting a fire upstairs and going back to bed, but the journey upstairs seems an impossible task. Instead, he stokes the fire with some paper and kindling, throwing another log on top, happy when it catches. Flames lick the sides and consume the fragrant wood. The wind howls in the chimneys, but his fire does not go out, only flickers. In the distance, he can still hear the waves. 

Warmth begins to seep back into his fingers. He hadn’t even realized he was cold until the numbness starts to fade. He lays down on the faded green couch cushions, fabric rough on his cheek. He has done nothing but sit and yet he is heavy with exhaustion. Every move feels as though it is being made inside thick tar, clinging to him, dragging him down. 

Mouse’s arm is tight around his middle, her fingers digging into his ribs as she tries to keep Tomas upright. She is much too small, her arm not long enough to give her a proper grip, but she is stronger than Tomas would have given her credit for. 

In the distance, he hears sirens. It’s night, but the sky is too bright from the city lights to see stars. The ground underfoot is damp, but it doesn’t smell like rain. He smells rot and garbage, the alley piled high with black bags and shattered bottles. A few doors down, a man in a white stained uniform and a crooked hairnet leans out of a door to smoke; when he sees the two of them, he stubs out his cigarette and closes the door. 

_ “Am I hurt?”  _ Tomas tries to ask, but his mouth is dry and his throat is parched and sore, so the words don’t come out right. 

“Hush. Don’t try and talk,” Mouse snaps. He recognizes her anger as the concern it is. He tries to notice if he’s in pain, but he can’t feel anything but how heavy his limbs are. At the end of the alley he sees it, a bright red cross next to a glowing sign that reads ‘Emergency’. 

When they enter the light, he can see Mouse’s face, a bruise is blossoming on her cheek and there are scratches down her neck. They don’t even make it to the front door. He slips from her grasp on the boulevard and he falls onto damp grass.  

“I’m coming back for you, I promise,” Mouse tells him. She looks as if she is about to run when she hesitates and pushes his hair back from his forehead, pressing her lips to his brow. “You’ll be alright,” she promises, and then she is gone. 

Someone yells. The ground is cold. Hands grab him and lift him; the world tilts. “Male, Latino, thirties—” Someone must find his wallet because they’re calling him “Javier.” His chest hurts and he realizes he’s laughing--he can’t remember if ‘Javier’ has insurance. It seems he does since the lights grow brighter and he is blinded by the fluorescent glow overhead. The light overpowers everything else. He can’t see anything but white. 

The sun streaming in from the window is so bright it takes him a moment to recognize the figure outside. She stands in tall grass that is too green, in a sundress that is too yellow.  _ Gillian _ . Her tight curls are a dark halo around her head, lit by a too bright sun that comes from two directions at once. Her shadow is a V behind her. 

It’s the closest he’s gotten to her so far. He can make out the pattern on her dress, white flowers and twisting vines. It looks nothing like her current wardrobe, all jeans and drab blouses in grey and cream. 

The trees behind her are so thick he can not see past the first few, their thick branches blocking all the light except in the clearing where she stands. The sun suits her; her brown ochre skin is warm and bright like Tomas has never seen her. He has to talk to her. He has to tell her he’s here. 

He slams his fist on the window, but it does not make a sound. The glass does not even shake. It is a firm barrier, hard as stone. He tries to call to her, but even to his own ears, his voice sounds distant. He needs to get closer. The further he gets from an afflicted person’s internal projection, the less real the world becomes, the less he can do for them. 

He finds a door at the end of an impossibly long hallway. He can see her through the peephole, still standing in that field even as the woods close in around her. The doorknob jiggles, but does not open. He slams his shoulder against it and is relieved when he feels it give, just a little. His arm aches but he cannot stop, not until—the door shatters under his weight and he tumbles out into the brilliant sunlight. 

The field is empty and the trees are closer than ever before. Their unnatural shadows loom ever nearer. He stands on the front porch of a cabin. He smells pine and sap, the air hot and rich with the scent. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” says Gillian. She sits on a porch swing to Tomas’ left. His shoulders sag with relief as he sits down beside her. 

“Where are we?” he asks, staring out into the dark woods. 

“We stayed here one summer, my sisters and I,” she tells him. Her voice is too empty. 

“Were you happy here?” 

“I was safe.” 

_ Maybe not, _ Tomas thinks, as the clearing shrinks down to the size of a children’s wading pool. The light from overhead is a disc the size of a dinner plate and then it is gone. 

“He followed you,” Gillian accuses. 

The door slams in his face and the long hallway starts to shrink. Through the peephole he sees Gillian getting smaller and smaller. He calls her name, banging against the door until his palms are sore. It no longer buckles under his assault and the doorknob is gone. He’s losing her. He needs to wake up. A frozen breath condenses at the back of his neck, so cold it makes his skin ache. It has found him. 

Tomas jerks his arm away as ice spreads through his veins, but someone is holding it down with gloved hands. “ —vere dehydration, malnutrition…” The voice fades and everything echoes in his ears like he’s hearing it through a conch shell, the ocean swelling over the clamour. He’s so tired that he can’t lift his arm to tear out the needle. It’s too cold, he’s too cold.  

He rolled off the cushions some time during the night. The floorboards are freezing on his back, even through the sweater. Sitting up, he sees that his feet are almost white with the cold. He needs to find socks. The fire died overnight and not even embers remain now, but daylight streams through the windows and it has stopped snowing. The sky is still as dark and grey as ever and the snow rises nearly to the windowsill, though the wind is blowing it towards the cliff’s edge. He can see the sea now, as dark as the sky, tall white-capped waves crashing against rocky shores. The snow may have stopped, but outside a storm still rages. He can hear the windows shuddering in their frames. 

The stairs seem to go on forever, though he only counts fourteen steps, his legs shaking by the time he reaches the top. Standing with the porthole light behind him, the hallway seems much longer and darker. With a hand against the wall to steady himself, he finds the bedroom he woke up in. 

The window is open again and frigid gusts assault him and slam the door shut when he steps inside. The puddle is smaller now, and there is very little new snow on the sill. He latches the shutters and slams the window shut, no longer feeling as if he is standing naked in a blizzard, the wind slicing right to the bone. 

He opens the bedroom door again to allow light from the hallway to spill inside. He finds a closet he had not spotted the day before, but it is empty save for a few dusty cobwebs. Under the bed, he has more luck, finding a deflated looking red duffel bag. Inside, he finds a pair of handknit slippers with sheepskin lining. He nearly sobs with relief when he pulls them on. Soft, with thick soles, they protect his numb feet from the splintering floorboards. He also finds a few pairs of underwear, briefs--too small to belong to him--and a wooden cross, simple and handmade with rough carved edges. He hesitates a moment before taking it. 

He searches the bathroom next. Under the sink, he finds a plastic comb with broken teeth and a bottle of Vim with a cracking label; the logo is ancient and blocky, and when he opens it, he finds the cleaner has dried into a hard paste. He also finds three wax wrapped bars of Ivory soap. In the medicine cupboard, he finds drugstore brand painkillers from a chain he doesn't recognize, a single bandaid, and a bottle of mouthwash. 

The second bedroom--the one with the bed frame but no bed--has nothing new and it also has no closet. Tomas finds the window thrown open in here as well. However, when he enters the third bedroom, he nearly drops the cross. The bed that had been stripped the day before now has a thick comforter and clean looking sheets. Two pillows have sunken indents from two heads that must have lain there recently. The sheets are neat, but not made, one corner thrown back as if someone left in a hurry. What nearly stops his heart, though, is the Bible that sits on the floor beside the bed--dark red leather with simple embossing. He puts down his cross and kneels before it, picking it up with trembling hands. 

Its soft cover is malleable and falls open to a page covered in charcoal drawings of thick forest. The next page has notes scribbled in pen, areas have been circled and others crossed out. This Bible is as familiar to him as the man that owns it. He runs his fingers over worn pages, turning each one with reverence until he stops, transfixed by a drawing of himself on one of the final pages. In the drawing, he has dark circles under his eyes, but he has a soft smile, one he has never seen himself make in the mirror or caught by a camera. His eyes are bright and they shine even on the dull page rendered in messy charcoal. 

“Marcus…” he whispers. 

Downstairs, something clatters to the floor, a loud metal clang that startles him enough that he drops the Bible. He snatches it up and races back down the stairs. He checks the kitchen first and finds a pot, rolling half circles on its side until it is stopped by its short handles and forced to roll back the other way. The metallic echo is the only sound he can hear and he is transfixed by it. It sounds like a dull saw, scraping at the floorboards. He watches it until it is still and then he bends to pick it up. The metal is ice on his fingers and he drops it unceremoniously on the counter. 

“Are you alright?” asks Marcus. 

He can’t move his wrists. They have been secured with soft cuffs to the edge of the bed. He can’t see further than the pale green privacy curtain and overhead, the fluorescent tubes flicker and hum. 

“Marcus?” he asks, unable to sit upright, so he cranes his neck to look for him. A nurse in floral scrubs slides open the curtain to slip inside, her back to him. Her dark brown hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun and she holds a clipboard under her arm. She turns and raises a finger to her lips. Mouse’s eyes are steely but her dementor is calm. 

She gently tugs the IV drip from his arm and detaches his panic button. Her deft hands work quickly to undo his cuffs and slide the railing down so she can help him to the floor. He isn’t prepared for how weak his legs are but Mouse is; her arms are out and she catches him, lowering him into a waiting wheelchair. 

She leans close to his ear and whispers, “I need you to pretend to be asleep for me.” He nods and she wraps a blanket around him, his gown hardly reaching past his mid thigh. He notes, with some discomfort, that he is not wearing any underwear. He glances up at her one last time and she smiles at him. Her smiles always seem so sad, he thinks. He closes his eyes and lets her guide him into the hallway. 

The hallway seems longer than before. At the top of the stairs he peers at the back wall, trying to see it, though it is hidden in shadow. Five doors--there were five doors before but now, in the gloom, he can make out a sixth at the far end. It does not match the first five--the white flaking paint he has come to recognize. The final door is plain, unpainted red wood. He can smell it from where he stands. He can smell cedar, pine needles, warm earth, and dry grass. 

“Where am I?” he asks Gillian. The porch swing creaks from their combined weight. She rocks it gently with her foot on the porch railing. 

“Washington State. Nowhere you’ve heard of,” she tells him. She sips iced tea from a glass sweating condensation, droplets of it rolling over her fingers. The clearing is smaller than it should be, but there is still space and sunlight and room to breathe. 

“What did it promise you?” 

Her eyes shine and from the trees, Tomas can hear distant shouting. He hears a man’s voice, sharp and furious, and Gillian’s voice, just as angry, fighting back. He hears the phone ringing and ringing and ringing, and so faint he almost can’t make it out, he hears a child cry. 

“Peace,” she says, dropping her glass. It shatters on the porch and the forest is too close. The light has gone out from the sky and the noise gets louder and louder. 

From the spilled iced tea, a creature grows, a man with a mouth full of glass teeth and a face covered in shattered shards. Gillian is gone and it reaches for Tomas, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him in the air. He hasn’t the air in his lungs to scream when it plunges claws made of jagged glass into his belly. There are holy words he must say if he can only catch a single breath. He should have seen it coming... sloppy work, he has to focus, has to get back to the hallway. It tears its claws up his middle all the way to his ribs, the blood soaking his pants and trickling off his shoes to the porch below. He’s going to die here and so will Gillian. His vision starts to fade. He fights and wins the battle for a single, thin breath and wheezes, “The power of Christ compels you.” 

In the truck, Mouse holds him to her, his head resting on her shoulder. She runs fingers through his hair. It’s getting too long and it tangles so easily now. He struggles to sit up, but she holds him down and shushes him. 

“Tomas, you need to rest.” 

“Gillian. Where is she?” He tries to sit up again, and this time, she is more forceful in holding him down. 

“Tomas, you’re very ill. You need to save your strength.” Her voice is gentle. She strokes his cheek and kisses his forehead like a mother, like a lover. Her fingers are rough, but her touch is so soft. He wants to sink into her. Her clothes smell strong, like smoke and sweat--masculine. The hand that trails fingers along his jaw has thick veins and pale gold hair on the knuckles, and the fingers are long and thin. 

“Marcus?” He presses his face against her chest, and where he should feel breasts give under his cheek, he only feels hard planes and bone. 

There is a voice. He can hear it somewhere in his mind. It is so loud, but he can’t make out the words. A man’s voice... no, a woman’s voice, a child’s voice. It is all of them and none of them. His belly bleeds through his hands, spilling over his fingers as he takes shuddering breaths. 

“Marcus?” he calls. His voice is too weak. He’ll never hear him. “Mouse?” No answer.  _ God? _ He will not answer either. 

The fluorescent lights hum and his heart monitor beeps in time with the blood pulsing from his body. No. Mouse came for him. She told him she would and she had. The wheelchair bumps as it comes down off the curb and into the parking lot. He can’t see far enough because the lights are out and the lot is too dark. He turns his head, but he can only see Mouse’ small, smooth hands, her face obscured by shadow. 

The streetlight flickers and in the light, he sees something falling from the sky. Soft flakes of grey snow, or ash, he can’t tell in the nicotine yellow glow. He’s so cold. He’s never been this cold before, not even his first winter in Chicago when the wind tore through him and his teeth chattered like a shopping cart on cobblestone. This is a cold that comes from inside, like his bones have turned to ice and are freezing him from the inside out. 

“Mouse?” He tries again. It hurts to talk, like there is ice in his throat scraping his esophagus. His heart beats so loud it echoes in his head, blocking out all else. He tries to say her name again, but he can’t even hear his own voice. 

His hand is frozen on the doorknob, the one with the window to the outside and the peeling white paint. It is only when the pounding in his ears subsides that he hears the soft but insistent scratching of claws on wood. The snow falls heavy and thick, but it’s too dark and the fire makes it hard to see out--his own hollow face is reflected back, instead. He blocks the reflection with his hands, peering out into the darkness. The darkness stares back with black eyes that swallow the light. 


	3. Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The creature closes in on its prey and Tomas can’t tell if he’s getting closer to the truth or slipping further from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so it’s been a while but here we are! I hope at least one person is still interested in reading this because I’m still pretty stoked to write it. Special thanks as always to Shell_and_Bone who does all the really hard work as my beta.

Tomas wakes. His arm aches and his lips are dry and sore. His legs itch. The curtains are pale blue and the plastic railings on his bed have lines carved into them \-- someone marking the days. He blinks, but his eyelids stick together with the thick remnants of sleep. 

He is in pain. He doesn’t quite know which part hurts yet, but he is scared to move. A hand brushes hair from his forehead and Mouse stares down at him with her tired, serious face. Her intensity would have suited Marcus, he’d always thought. He’s not surprised that this is the woman that Marcus almost broke his vows for. Though perhaps much of her intensity came later, after she had to go on alone. Was her uncompromising pragmatism the fate that awaited all of those left behind by Marcus Keane?

Sometimes, though, like now, Tomas catches a glimpse of another woman she might have been. How alike they are, he thinks, her and Marcus, angry at the world because they both care too damn much. It took Tomas longer than he would have liked to figure out that she actually likes him, that she likes him a great deal. She’s horrible at showing it, until one figures out her harsh critiques and thinly veiled insults are supposed to be friendly. She gets angry with him because she worries, because she cares. 

“Took you long enough. Thought you’d never wake up,” she says, her tone sharp, but her fingers on his forehead are smooth and cool. Her fingertips aren’t calloused like Marcus’, though her hands are just as scarred. 

“How long?” is what he tries to say, though it comes out more like a pathetic croak. She has a cup of lukewarm water and she holds the straw to his lips, not pulling it away until she deems he’s drunk enough. 

“How long?” he asks again, and this time it actually makes it out of his mouth. 

Mouse looks at her phone. “Five days, in about two hours.” 

“I see…” 

“When you didn’t wake after two days, I took you here,” she tells him, putting her phone away. 

“Don’t you normally wait three?” He finds the bed controls and pushes himself  as upright as he can manage. His ribs hurt like they’ve been trampled by an angry mule. 

“After last time, I wasn’t risking it again.” She looks away, her mouth twisted tight. 

Last time… it had taken him seven days to wake up. He had started to worry that perhaps he was weakening, that each exorcism was taking more out of him, but this time only five days. It was a good sign, wasn’t it? 

“I’m alright,” he assures her, though he winces as he adjusts in his bed. “Where are we?” 

“You’re a fool with aspirations of martyrdom, but I suppose ‘alright’ is close enough,” she snipes, her eyes glaring up at him from under her dark brows. Tomas swallows, but he’s saved from replying when she sighs and tells him, “We’re in a hospice. I blackmailed the head nurse. You’re my dying husband.” She lifts her hand and he sees a gold band on her ring finger. Looking down at his own hand, he sees a matching one. 

“What am I dying from?” 

“Brain cancer,” she replies. “You’ve come here to die peacefully.” 

Tomas swallows hard. “You know, that sounds a bit like a threat.” 

“Your usefulness outweighs the risks your recklessness causes.” Ah, and there it was: her eternal pragmatism. 

“I see…” 

“How’re your ribs?” She is tugging down his sheets before he can answer and he doesn't fight her when she gently peels up his teeshirt, soft cotton with a faded Nike logo. Her nose wrinkles at what she sees, so Tomas cranes his neck to look, too. His entire right side is mottled with fading purple, green, and brown. 

“What happened?” he asks, wincing as she pulls his shirt back down. 

“You don’t remember?” Her brows raise. Tomas cannot tell if this means his memory loss is cause for concern. 

“I only remember…” He stops to think and panic makes his lungs ache when he tries to breathe. Mouse must see the fear in his eyes since she puts a hand over his, though her eyes are hard and inscrutable. 

“You were thrown into a table.” 

“Oh.” He doesn’t remember. He still can’t remember… “Did I… hit my head?” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

Mouse is waiting for an explanation that Tomas cannot give her. He feels sick with dread. 

“Do you think you will be able to walk?” Mouse asks. 

“Now?” 

She nods. “The sooner the better. We shouldn’t stay here longer than we have to.” 

He understands, though his ribs don’t. He hisses in pain as he sits up. Mouse lowers the railings on the bed and Tomas swings his legs over the edge. She tugs shoes and socks onto his feet so he doesn’t have to bend and helps him to the floor. Standing makes him feel as if there are knives stuck between his ribs; every time he moves, they stab and slice his insides. 

His legs shake when he walks. The pain is bad, but he’s had worse. At least he thinks he has. He can’t think clearly enough to remember right now; his mind is in a thick fog and the pain is everything. Mouse is holding his arm and she keeps him steady.

The floorboards creak underfoot and the pain in his side is sharp and insistent. His knees buckle and no one catches him when he falls. The hallway looks so long from the floor. Five wooden doors with peeling white paint and the single porthole window. From the floor, he rolls onto his back and tries to breathe though it is fiery agony. 

“Mouse?” he rasps. Has he fainted? But the floor under his palms is splintery and solid and so real. He wears slippers and not sneakers, flannel pajamas and not sweatpants. It seems so minor a difference and yet… how long has be been in the hallway? The pain isn’t just in his side; it is in his belly and in his throat. He lifts his shirt to see the damage and his gasp is followed by a shockwave of pain that makes his vision go white. There are no bruises, but on his belly, instead, there are four jagged scars, purple-red and fresh, going from his pelvis to his sternum. 

When? He would have remembered…  _ Gillian.  _ But that wasn’t real, so did that mean— 

“Gillian!” he shouts, ignoring the pain though it blinds him. “Gillian!” His voice is ragged and crackles like a demon speaking with an unfamiliar mouth. 

“Tomas!” 

Hands on his face, soft and small, but covered in hard scars--Mouse. He opens his mouth to say her name, but he can’t speak. He can’t see her. He can’t see anything. 

“Tomas!” 

No—not Mouse… that isn’t… Rough fingers scrape his cheek. Hard, steady hands. He reaches for one of them, grabbing its attached wrist. Oh God, let it be… 

He opens his eyes. He blinks, once, twice, and then he can’t stop because there are tears spilling from the corners of his eyes faster than he can clear. The sharp knifelike agony in his gut is fading, but his throat aches as he swallows a harsh sob. His lungs are being squeezed and he can’t catch his breath. Those rough fingers wipe tears from his cheeks. Tomas is scared if it takes him too long to blink the rest away that he will be gone and the room will be empty. It seems he can’t trust anything right now, not even what he can touch. 

He clings to that wrist like a lifeline. Perhaps it is. 

“Marcus…” he gasps.  

“I’m here,” Marcus replies. His eyes are bright and shine even in the dim light of the hallway. Marcus’ hand strokes his cheek, slow and tender. He looks so tired with deep purple under his eyes and deep lines under those. It makes him look like he’s been punched, two black eyes given to him by exhaustion’s mean right hook. 

An arm under his shoulders. It hurts. The scars pull at his skin and underneath they ache. Marcus helps him to his feet and he finds he can stand on his own; he holds Marcus for support anyways. 

It’s dark. The lights in the hallway flicker and he can hear the wind howl outside. A frigid blast of air hits him through an open door and Marcus lets out a heavy sigh. “Let’s get you to bed and I’ll close that.” 

He takes him to the room with the bed on the floor. One side of the bed has Marcus’ Bible and a handful of other personal items: socks, shoes, his rosary. The other side has a spilt glass of water. Marcus helps him under the covers with practiced ease. The room Is only lit by a gas lantern that glows bright white and casts eerie shadows on the walls, radiating warmth. 

Marcus pulls the blankets over him and turns to the door. Tomas sits bolt upright despite the pain, his heart beats rapid fire in his chest as fear rises in his throat. 

“You’re not leaving?” He hates that he sounds like a child, desperate and afraid, but Marcus either does not notice or does not mind. 

“I’ll be right back. I have to close the windows before we freeze.” 

He is gone before Tomas can object. He is alone in the dark and he clutches his blankets like he is six years old again and he is sleeping in an unfamiliar bedroom where the air is too hot and the sheets feel all wrong. His  _ abuela _ had frightened him when he met her. She was small, but her voice was loud, and she had looked him up and down with a discerning eye. Tomas was so afraid he would not measure up, more fearful still when she ushered him inside and showed him how to set the table, firmly correcting him when he made a mistake. When he went to bed that night, he was so sure in the morning she would send him back home where he would have nowhere to go and he would die on the streets of Chicago with the homeless man who yelled on the bus and the scary thin woman with a scabbed mouth. 

But just like his  _ abuela _ had not sent him home, and had loved him and cared for him until he became a man, Marcus returns to the bedroom like he promised. 

Now Tomas is afraid—even as Marcus crawls into bed beside him—because there is pain in his stomach from a wound he cannot possibly have gotten the way he remembers, and he does not know where he is or how he got there. He is afraid because he cannot remember when he last saw Mouse, or how long it has been since that fateful day at the motel when Marcus walked away from him. He is afraid because if this is not real he does not know what he will do. 

Marcus slings an arm over his shoulder and pulls him in close; their foreheads touch and Tomas’ is damp with sweat though he feels cold. Marcus has not turned the lantern off and in the dim white glow, he is pale and haunting, a ghost whose heartbeat Tomas can feel through his skin. 

He doesn’t mean to kiss Marcus, or, well, he doesn't expect to do it. Marcus’ mouth is pliant under his for a moment--he even leans into it, but then his palm is hot and damp on Tomas’ shoulder and he is gently pushing him back.

“We’ve talked about this,” he tells him, weary, and with what might be regret. Tomas does not remember talking about this. He does not remember kissing him before, but the feel of his lips is familiar so he keeps that to himself. He will remember; he just needs time. He does not need to worry Marcus, so he won’t kiss him again even as his mouth aches for it. 

“I’m sorry,” he lies, instead of pressing his mouth to Marcus’ long neck. 

“It’s alright,” Marcus replies, a hypocrite. He kisses Tomas on his damp forehead. 

He thinks he might slip into dreaming, but instead he is falling. Marcus’ face is fading into blackness and Tomas tries to open his mouth to call for him but all that spills from his lips is blood. He tastes it, feels it trickling down his chin before it spills on the floor, staining the wood below. His belly is on fire and the demon before him is made of broken glass. Its twisted features snarl at him. Tomas hits the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. The creature stands over him, its bloodied claw raised over him. It’s his blood, dripping from glass fingernails and onto his face. Tomas clutches his middle as blood pours through his fingers. He’s closed his eyes, but when he opens them again Gillian is peering down at him with a small frown. 

“You should run,” she tells him. 

Tomas sits upright and he doesn’t realize the scream came from his mouth until there is an arm around his shoulders and a hand in his hair. 

“Hush,” says Mouse. “It’s alright. Only a nightmare.” 

His throat hurts and his ribs ache when he breathes. Mouse’s hand on his shoulder is firm and solid and real, holding him to her. It feels like forever they sit like that. The bed beside him has its covers thrown to the floor. The way she holds him, it’s so familiar he feels tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, though he does not weep.

“Tomas…” 

“I’m fine,” he croaks, his throat tight and sore. “Excuse me…” 

He extracts himself from her embrace, stumbling across the carpet to the bathroom. He flips the switch and the light overhead is blinding, bright white and it buzzes an electric hum like a wasp in his ear. He sees himself in the mirror and looks away. He is almost grey with deep purple bruises under his bloodshot eyes. He looks ill, he feels ill. Nausea rises in his stomach and he swallows it down. He turns on the sink and takes deep gulps of metallic water from the tap. He splashes his face as well, as though it will clear the sticky feeling of exhaustion inside his skull.

Three firm knocks on the door. Mouse is a woman of habit and repetition. Tomas opens the door for her without answering. Mouse slips inside and stands beside him at the sink, her hands on the counter. She watches him in the mirror with sharp eyes that strip him clean to the bone. He has no secrets from her. Her face softens, her mouth turns down. 

“Tomas…” she says with a weary sigh, “If you need some time—“ 

“I’m fine,” he lies, averting his eyes from her gaze. The mirror is filthy with splash marks from the sink and flecks of old toothpaste. 

“Alright,” she says. Tomas knows she sees right through him, just as he knows they are too desperate for her to contradict him. 

He’s too tired to stay here. The bathroom light is making his eyes throb, but his heart is still pounding too fast for him to sleep. He lets Mouse lead him back to bed and he doesn't say anything when she crawls in behind him, throwing an arm around his middle. He’s too humiliated to thank her, but the relief is profound. 

Mouse is still there when he wakes. She reminds Tomas of a mother, though she is not matronly. She is more like a saint, benevolent and understanding, but she burns with a fire and passion that would destroy all enemies in her path. Perhaps he only thinks of her as motherly because she is kind to him and she is a woman. If that is the case, he can never tell her, she would not take it well.

He doesn’t remember his own mother very well. He had seen her since moving back to Chicago, but he did not recognize her. She was a stranger and the woman from his past is a distant and blurry memory. His father may as well have never existed. He only remembers the sound of his voice, loud and angry, though he can’t recall any words he might have said. That man left Chicago and where he may be now Tomas neither knows nor cares.

Mouse rolls onto her back, stretching her shoulders and arching her spine like a cat. She glances over at him and smiles, but it is sad and her eyes are searching. She thinks something is wrong. Tomas doesn’t know how to reassure her. The nightmares will pass, they always pass. Tomas smiles back at her. There is a sharp pain in his gut, and he breathes slowly to avoid the worst of the pain. 

“Did you think you could hide from me?” asks the demon made of shattered glass. Tomas’ gut throbs and the pain is sharp and steals his breath when he moves. Blood seeps from between his fingers as he clutches his stomach with one hand and the wall with the other. He is leaving bloody smears on the polished wood walls, a trail that leads right to him. 

“What do you want with her?” Tomas demands, though it comes out a wet wheeze. He tastes blood and his lips are wet and slick. He can feel it behind him, the air has turned to ice and it hurts his throat. 

“You think you’re an exorcist? She doesn’t want you,” it growls. Something strikes his back and Tomas falls onto his knees. The floor is wet and red. His hands are slippery with it. “But I do…” 

“Tomas!” 

There is blood on Mouse’s cheek, a red smear that looks like a handprint. Leaning over him, her hair cascades over her shoulders in wild frizzy waves. Tomas tries to tell her he’s alright, that he just needs more time. 

“Tomas?” 

The bed shifts and Mouse sits up, glancing back at him from over her shoulder. “Are you going to stay in bed all day?” 

Tomas swallows and it feels strange in his dry throat. When he is sure he can speak without croaking, he says, “Are we moving on?” 

“I don’t have anything new yet, but the further we can get from this town the better.” She stands and starts to undress, reaching into her bag for clean clothes. Her nakedness doesn’t bother him like it once did; his face no longer heats, nor does he feel panic. He simply averts his eyes. She is almost as scarred as Marcus. Her hips have long white scars that look as if they were left by fingernails. There are others, too, a puckered pink scar on the back of her neck, a bite mark on her wrist, the scar on her cheek… She has been marked by her trade and Tomas wonders how long it will be until his skin looks like hers. 

Tomas sits up and reaches into his own bag, gathering up his clothes. Despite Mouse’s lack of shame when it comes to her body, Tomas can’t say he feels the same. He takes his clothes to the bathroom to dress, looking away from the filthy mirror so he does not have to see his own haggard appearance. Now that he is upright, the pain in his gut has gotten worse. It has traveled, tightening his ribs and his throat so it hurts when he breathes. He is nauseous and his eyes ache from his restless sleep. 

He strips off his pajamas, a ratty teeshirt and sweatpants. Naked in front of the sink, he leans down to splash water on his face, swallowing some in an attempt to cure the ache behind his eyes and the agony in his stomach. He gags as he tries to swallow. Black bile, thick as tar, slides out of his mouth and onto the white porcelain. He chokes as it blocks his throat and he feels it come out his nose. It tastes like wet copper, but it sticks to his lips like melted sugar. He has to scrape it out of his mouth with his fingers and he gags several more times before his mouth tastes right again. 

Three knocks on the door. “Tomas, is everything alright?” 

Tomas rinses the vile black ichor down the sink and scrubs the last of it from his face before opening the door a crack. He smiles at her, face shiny and wet. “Sorry, just getting dressed, I’ll be out in a moment.” 

She doesn’t look like she believes him, but she doesn’t ask any more questions even as Tomas emerges fully dressed and washed. His mouth now tastes like cheap toothpaste, but something still burns in the back of his throat. 

“Let’s go,” he tells her, taking shallow breaths so he can ignore the pain in his gut. He slings his bag over his shoulder and follows her out the door. 

Icy wind blows through the thin cotton of his shirt. It’s not snowing, but the sky is still grey and foreboding. The wind whips powdery snow off the ground and hurls it against the side of the house, even reaching as far up as the second floor window Tomas is leaning out of. 

His hands grip the sill so hard it hurts. His fingers have gone white and numb. He shivers violently, and his teeth chatter so hard he’s afraid he’s going to bite his tongue. He can’t let go of the ledge. Whether it is the cold or some unknown force, his hands will not unclench and freezing wind blows up his shirt. His cheeks sting. 

The sea hurls itself against the cliffs, spraying white foam up the grey stone. Tomas hopes that he did not only dream that Marcus was here. His prayers are the waves that crash against an immovable shore. There is no answer, no voice in the darkness nor hands to pull him back from the window ledge.

Slowly, one finger at a time, he releases his grip and steps away from the window. He pulls the shutters closed and slams the window. Now in darkness, he shakes like a dying leaf on a branch, the wind trying to tear it from its purchase. 

He is in the room with one bed and a fireplace, though the hearth is cold and the ashes are scattered. The blanket has been stripped from the bed and lays in a heap on the floor. Picking it up, Tomas finds it is not damp from the chill air, so he wraps it around his shoulders like a cloak. It must help, but he can hardly tell; the cold is in his bones, freezing him from the inside out. 

The hallway is empty and dark. He hadn’t expected anything else. He hopes that there is still kindling and newspaper downstairs so he can start a fire, or perhaps he will get lucky and he’s simply forgotten that he already lit one. He seems to be forgetting an awful lot these days. 

Downstairs, there are dishes piled in the sink from a meal he does not remember eating and the cushions he had sat in front of the fire have been stacked beside the broken couch. He sighs and kneels beside the hearth, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he prods a charred log. It crackles and amber sparks shower over his hand as it snaps in half.

It only takes a handful of bundled newspaper and a few more logs before Tomas is seated in front of a roaring blaze. He puts the couch cushions back in front of the hearth and stares into the flames until his eyes are dry and when he looks away the rest of the room seems plunged in darkness. He doesn’t bother with the newspapers. They never tell him anything. 

The sky turned black while he wasn’t looking. The light from the fire surrounds him like a protective circle. He doesn’t know why he never feels safe upstairs, at least not when he’s alone. 

He’s not cold anymore. He’s not tired, but he should sleep. If he is ill, he needs to rest and if he is simply losing his mind, then it is something to pass the time. Closing his eyes, he sinks into the warm water. The bathtub is too small, but most are. The steam warms the air and makes it easier to breathe. He slips under and the water covers his face, though his knees jut out at an awkward angle. He is sinking deeper. He hasn’t been warm like this in a long time. 

The fire is hot on his face, but Tomas relishes the burn. Hunched over by the fire, blanket around his shoulders, he looks like an old man, wasting away all alone. He shuts his eyes against the bright flames. He really should lay down and try and rest until morning. Perhaps something will change. 

Rough hands haul him from the water and over the side of the tub. Someone is shouting at him, but it’s from so far away. It echoes in his ears like the voice is coming from inside a conch shell. It is when the hand starts to thump his back that he realizes he can’t breathe. How long has he not been able to breathe? The lip of the bathtub is digging hard into his ribs and pushing on his stomach. He vomits bathwater onto the towel serving as a bath mat. 

Those hands clutch his shoulders, run their calloused fingers over his back, his neck, his cheek. There is a chill breeze now; the bathroom door is open and the hallway is black and foreboding. 

Marcus crushes him to his chest, arms clutching him, holding him up. His arms prickle with goosebumps as the frigid air permeates the room and steals the warmth from his skin. Even Marcus’ wiry arms are not enough to keep the cold at bay. 

“Jesus Christ, Tomas,” Marcus curses in his ear. “Don’t fucking do that to me.” 

Tomas wants to promise that he won’t. He’d say anything right now to keep him here at his side. He misses him. He’s missed him. God, he can’t remember which it’s supposed to be. He clings to Marcus’ shirt, his wet skin soaking the cotton, but Marcus either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. The smallest, guiltiest part of him relishes this; Marcus  _ cares _ and he cares enough to be frightened of losing him. It’s selfish, contemptible, but he craves that kind of love, he is starving for it. 

The hallway looms over Marcus’ shoulder, darker than the light from the bathroom should allow. He can’t tear his eyes away.

The floorboards are cold under his bare feet and the hallway looms on forever into inky blackness. The only light comes from the stars shining through the porthole above the stairs. They are bright enough to almost cast a shadow, his shadow, as he stares down the darkness. It’s not just the darkness that stares back--it is a shape, hideous to behold, darker than the shadows, and those eyes that swallow the light blink once, twice. The creature steps forward and Tomas takes a step back, the blanket falling from his shoulders. His foot lands on nothing. He’s forgotten about the stairs. He flails for the railing and the creature watches as Tomas tumbles backwards, mouth agape in surprise and terror. 


	4. Let it In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas has to wonder, is he doing this to himself, or is he being manipulated by outside forces?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always special thanks to Shell_and_Bone who is the best beta I could ever ask for. Shorter chapter this time but I’m hard at work again and i’m only picking up more steam so we should have another one soon.

It’s cold, so cold his fingers ache when he flexes them. And it’s bright, so bright he is blinded by the searing whiteness. His feet are wet. Tomas takes another step and snow crunches underfoot. He blinks, then blinks again. The snowstorm has stopped; he can see the sea over the cliffs, can see the sheer drop mere steps away. He takes another step closer before vertigo claims him and he falls backwards into the thick, deep, snow. 

“—mas! Tomas!” 

Tomas’ head whips around. The sun is so bright he can hardly see the figure running towards him, but he knows that voice. He tries to stand, but his foot slips and he collapses back into the snow. It’s knee deep and he doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before. 

“Tomas…” Marcus is breathing heavily as he kneels beside him, placing hands on his shoulders, on his cheeks. He isn’t dressed for the cold. He only wears a flannel shirt and jeans, and his boots are untied. Tomas can see the black laces like snakes, stark against the white snow. 

Tomas clings to Marcus’ soft shirt with his numb, aching fingers. Marcus’ shoulders heave as he struggles to catch his breath. Tomas’ throat aches in sympathy. 

“You must be freezing,” he says to Marcus. 

“I... I must be...“ Marcus pauses a moment to compose himself; his features have twisted into anger. “Look at you. Your hands are as pale as mine! How long have you been out here?” 

Marcus grips Tomas’ hand in his to prove his point. Sure enough, Tomas’ fingers have gone deathly pale. He barely feels the tightness of Marcus’ hand, but he can see it squeezing the life from his own. 

“I don’t know,” Tomas says honestly. It doesn’t seem to be the answer Marcus is looking for since he looks ready to shout again. “I’m sorry.” 

Marcus deflates and sighs, sliding an arm under Tomas’ shoulders. “Come on,” he tells him. “Let’s get you inside.” 

Marcus helps him fight through the snow until they reach a shoveled path, though even then, he does not relinquish his grip on Tomas. Tomas is grateful. He is not sure he’d stay upright without him. Marcus takes him upstairs to the bedroom and seats him in front of the kerosine lantern. It hisses gently and emits a warm glow.  

“I’m going to boil some water for the bath. Get out of your wet things and dry off before you catch your death of cold.” Marcus uses a tone that is both irritated and affectionate. It reminds him of Mouse. “Are you alright on your own?”

“I think I can manage to undress myself,” Tomas jokes. Marcus doesn’t laugh, but he does leave him be. He hadn’t realized just how wet he’d gotten until he starts to unbutton his shirt and peel it from his clammy skin. Soon he is naked and shivering. Shivering is good, so he’s been told. It’s when you stop shivering that you’re supposed to start worrying. 

He wraps a blanket around his shoulders and waits. Marcus soon returns with a towel, his face red and damp with sweat. “Water’s boiled,” he tells him. “Let’s get you warmed up.” 

Tomas follows him to the bathroom and he lets Marcus peel the blanket from him. He stands naked staring at the water, shivering so hard his jaw aches. 

“How long was I outside?” 

Tomas stands in a bathroom, but it is not the same one. The one he is in now smells like warm earth and the walls are made of cedar. Above the toilet hangs a photograph of dense evergreen trees. He turns around to find the sink, and the mirror above it tells him he is still naked. The scars on his stomach are no longer scars. Instead, they are open and bloody. The flesh between each wound moves and bends more like rubber strips than pieces of his flesh. It should hurt. He should be in agony. Blood runs over his groin and down his legs, and he feels it, every trickle, the way his insides are trying to push their way outside. He is sick to his stomach but he does not feel pain. 

Gillian. Where is she? He pushes the bathroom door open and finds himself again in a long hallway, a red cedar door at the end. The way his gut shifts when he moves is nauseating, but he pushes onwards, limping towards the door and by the time he makes it, he finds he is no longer naked. Instead, he wears light linen pants and a white button up shirt. 

The door swings open and he is in a children’s play room. Two little girls share a handful of miniature dolls that wear rubber clothes. They tear each item off and put on another, and then another, until they both reach for the same bright pink turtleneck. The rubber stretches between their hands as they each tug for control. Finally the toy gives and the rubber splits right down the middle. The younger of the two begins to cry and the older hits her with her tiny fists.

“My sister,” says Gillian, pointing to the older of the girls.

“Was it always like this?” Tomas asks. He cannot move any closer yet. Her arms are still tight across her chest. She will not look at him; her eyes are instead transfixed on the scene playing out before them. Tomas assumes it is their mother that comes in and drags them apart, taking the older girl out of the room. 

“Not always,” Gillian says. “Mom was always there to keep things from getting too out of hand. Sisters fight, especially when the brand new Polly Pocket is involved.” 

“Is that what those are?” Tomas points to the dolls with the rubber clothes. 

“You never played Polly Pocket?” Gillian demands, incredulous. 

“Maybe they were a little after my time, and I was never friends with many girls as a child.” 

Tomas watches as Gillian steps into the scene, ignoring her young self who is crying beside a toybox. She sits in front of the dolls and picks one up, stripping its outfit and selecting another. 

“Come here,” she says to him without turning her head, “I’ll show you how to play.”

“I don’t think so,” says Tomas. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not safe here. You have to come back with me.”

“You don’t understand,” she mumbles, turning the doll over and over in her hands. By the toybox, the child continues to sob. “It’s never been so quiet.” 

“You can’t stay here alone,” Tomas insists. “That creature is a liar and a thief. He’ll take every part of you and you’ll be shut away, trapped in your own mind. Do you really want that?” 

“What difference does it make?” Gillian snaps.

“He’ll use it to hurt people, hurt those closest to you,” Tomas pleads. Gillian grows more and more distant. Soon he’ll have to yell to reach her. “What about your family?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He barely has time to blink before he is thrown back. He lands in the clearing out front of the cabin, the front door slamming shut. The trees loom high and dark around him and the sky has no sun, though it is still painfully bright.

“Gillian!” he calls. “Gillian please!” 

“She doesn’t want you,” the demon growls. 

Tomas stands and turns to face it. Blood is blossoming on his white shirt and this time he does feel pain. It forces him to his knees and the demon laughs at him. He gasps for breath as the agony tries to squeeze the air from his lungs.

“Who would want you? A broken runaway priest…” It crouches so it can take Tomas’ chin in its hand, those sharp shattered glass claws stinging as they brush his cheek. “Marcus couldn’t wait to see the back of you, foisting you on his other reject. How long before Mouse realizes you’re useless? You think she’ll stay then?” 

“She doesn’t want  _ you _ ,” Tomas spits, ignoring the taunts even as the forest echoes them in voices so soft he shouldn’t be able to hear them. 

“You think Marcus could ever want a man like you? A greedy, vain, arrogant man like you? Marcus Keane is even more washed up and even he can see you’re nothing.” 

The agony in his belly doubles and Tomas can’t help it--he screams, hands gripping his middle. His are slick with blood now. His shirt is soaked through. 

“You think a man so devoted to God, even after everything He’s taken away, you think a man like that could ever stoop to your base desires, your lustful urges.” 

Tomas shakes his head. He needs to find the air to breathe. He can’t fight when his lungs are empty and he’s choking.  _ Click, click, click, click.  _ It’s so soft he almost doesn’t hear it. 

“I’m the only one who sees you and doesn’t turn away. I know what you are, who you are, and I would take you as you are.”

Air fills his lungs and though it is torturous to breathe, he takes deep, gulping breaths.  _ Click, click, click, click _ . Louder this time. It doesn’t come from the demon, or the forest.

“She doesn’t want you,” Tomas cries, “and neither do I!” 

“Doesn’t want me?” The demon laughs. “She invited me.” 

“Did she?” Tomas sneers. “Then why is she still fighting?” 

_ Click, click, click, click.  _ The barbecue lighter in his hand hisses quietly, but will not light. He pushes his thumb harder against the safety latch and tries again. This time it lights, the flame bursting from the tip. Tomas crouches and lights the first crumpled newspaper. 

It catches quicker than Tomas expects, flames crawling from the paper to the pile of wood, covering the surface even before the logs begin to burn. There must be something else burning, he smells the air--kerosine. He looks down and sees the empty tin at his feet and the puddle beside it that has caught flame. Cold wind howls through the room and the fire is beginning to spread to the floorboards. 

_ The floorboards.  _ Tomas stands in the middle of the living room, the miniature bonfire growing larger at his feet. He yelps in surprise and casts his eyes around for something to put out the blaze. He sees an old felt blanket and snatches it from the broken sofa, lunging for the spreading fire. It burns hot though the fabric and he shouts as his hands are singed.

A hand grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him, and the blanket, backwards. His tailbone cracks painfully against the floor as he falls. Marcus stands over the fire and upends a massive bucket of snow, then runs out for another, and another. Soon the fire is nothing but a smouldering pile of charcoal staining the living room floor black. 

Marcus throws the bucket aside with a loud clang. It rolls across the floor and comes to rest in front of the hearth. Marcus grabs Tomas’ wrists, turning his palms up so he can take a closer look. The wind still blows through the door, flung wide open like the windows, the shutters banging against the side of the house. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” 

Mouse dabs at his bloody palms with an alcohol wipe. It stings, but it does loosen some of the grit caught in the raw skin.

Tomas does not remember, so he shrugs. He does not even remember how he got those scrapes in the first place, and that is all they are--scrapes. He’s had so much worse. 

He looks down at his blistering palms as Marcus slathers them in ointment and wraps them in gauze. Marcus’ frown is deep and furious. It makes Tomas afraid to move, afraid to speak. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to say. Marcus does not look up, makes no indication that he’s heard him. “I didn’t mean… that is… I don’t remember—“ 

“I know,” Marcus interrupts, tying off the second bandage and standing. Tomas stands, too, afraid Marcus will leave before he explains what happened. The bedsprings screech as they are relieved of his weight. 

“What’s happening to me?” He sounds so pathetic, his voice cracks. Marcus does look at him now, and his face becomes gentle. That gentleness is almost more frightening than his anger. It’s a face Tomas often saw while they were working, but never directed at him. “What’s wrong with me?” he asks. 

“You’re ill, Tomas,” Marcus replies. He takes Tomas’ face in his hands and presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. “It’s alright.” 

“What kind of sick person does this?” Tomas demands, thrusting his burnt hands between them. 

“I’m taking care of it,” Marcus says, promises. With arms around Tomas’ shoulders, he holds him close. Tomas buries his face in his neck. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Marcus’ shoulder is wet on his cheek. 

“How long have I been here?”

The room is empty. The window is shut. Tomas looks down at his hands and they are smooth and unmarked. The iron damper inside the fireplace rattles and Tomas kneels down at the hearth in order to reach up inside and wrench the damper shut. The wind immediately quiets, but the room feels unnaturally still. Tomas fears turning around. He knows what lurks in the shadows behind him. 

“Marcus…” he is pleading, though he does not know who is is pleading to--the man himself or God. Only one of them has ever answered him. 

He vomits into the fireplace, sugar sticky black bile, thick as tar. It sticks to his chin and when he puts fingers in his mouth to scrape it out, he only makes himself gag harder, more of it covering his hand. It’s cold as the snow outside, freezing his fingers, but burning his throat. Trying to scrape it from his hand is like trying to remove sap from his skin, it clings and will not release him. 

He grows more desperate, rubbing it on his shirt, his pants, the floor. It tastes like nothing and that in itself tastes wrong. Just the feel of it still stuck inside his mouth makes him gag.    
He turns to face the monster that looms high above him, his blackened palms extended. The sticky tar in his mouth will not let him speak so he asks without words,  _ “What do you want with me?”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love if you could let me know what you think? I fully intend to keep writing Exorcist fic so fingers cross you’re all still alive and reading out there.


	5. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas knows better than to hope, but something has to be real so why can’t it be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe [ Shell_and_bone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell_and_bone/pseuds/shell_and_bone) My Life. She is the most patient and kind beta anyone could ask for and an incredible writer on top of that, check out her work I’m begging you. We’ve just hit the halfway point of this story and I’ve been on a roll so hopefully I’ll be able to finish this up before school starts up again and eats all my free time. THANK YOU so much to all of you still reading this and all the lovely commenters, you guys make life worth living I swear.

_ “How long has he been like this?”  _

_ “I don’t know. He hid it so well…”  _

_ “You were supposed to protect him.” _

_ “I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. You should know that better than anyone.” _

_ “You promised me!” _

Tomas’ skull is breaking in two, splitting down the centre as thoughts burst through the cracks. He clutches his head, nails digging into his scalp as if that will hold it all together and ease the pain of remembering.

_ “He made his choice!” _

_ “You knew better!” _

_ “He is not a child, Marcus. We needed him.” _

_ “And now he’s no use to you, so where does that leave us?” _

Useless, it’s useless to try to remember. He’s useless, that much he knows without his memories. Unless they aren’t memories… He strains to hear the voices.

_ “This is war. No one life is worth more than another.” _

_ “He is not a pawn to be sacrificed!” _

_ “If that’s how you feel, why did you leave?” _

_ “You know why…” _

_ “You knew what he would do and you still left. I told you I would not be his keeper. If that’s what you wanted, then you never should have walked away.” _

Tomas’ cheek rests on the cool stone of the hearth. His cheek is sticky with black bile. It smells like rot. The shutters knock against the shingles outside, icy air flooding the upstairs bedroom. Tomas sits upright and then, with a hand on the fireplace to steady himself, he stands. Nausea churns in his gut, but he manages to swallow it back down. His steps are shaky and his legs weak, but he makes it to the window so he can close the shutters against the freezing wind. At least it is not snowing.

The metal framed bed is still stripped bare, the stained mattress wholly uninviting. Tomas still finds himself sitting on it, however, when his legs begin to tremble again, the nausea making him weak as a kitten.

The agony in his head subsides as the voices quiet and he cannot find it in himself to try and bring them back no matter what answers they may hold. He will try again when he does not feel quite so ill.

When he can finally stand again, he makes his way to the bathroom. The taps do not work, but there is a red plastic bucket of cold water and a washcloth inside the sink. He uses that to scrub as much of the vile ichor from his cheek, his mouth, his hands. The water is frigid and makes his fingertips numb, but the smell of rot is worse than the cold, so he perseveres until he feels clean again.

He drops the filthy washcloth in terror when he looks up to see a figure in the mirror behind him, but it is only Marcus who bends to pick it up, looking at the black stains with dismay.

“Tomas, why didn’t you tell me you were ill again?”

_ How many times have I been ill? For how long?  _ The words catch in his throat. He thinks he might be more afraid of knowing.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Marcus reaches for his shoulder, his hand firm, solid, real. It must be real. He’s as sure of it as he can be anymore.

Marcus hangs the filthy washcloth over the edge of the sink and puts an arm around Tomas’ shoulders. “You should rest,” he tells him, walking him to the room with the mattress on the floor. It’s the room with the kerosine lantern that radiates warmth and Tomas is overjoyed to find it lit, though the shadows it casts are dark and terrible.

Marcus sits him down on the bed, kneeling in front of him and taking Tomas’ hands in his. Tomas wishes he knew if it was sadness, fear, or pity in Marcus’ eyes.

“Tomas…” Marcus starts, but does not finish.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” He’s sure he’s asked this question before, perhaps he’s asked it one hundred times over.

“No, I won’t leave, not again, never again.”

Tomas feels the ache in his skull again, the itching that turns to cracking that turns to splitting agony eating him from the inside out.

That day at the motel when he and Marcus shared an embrace that seemed so final it felt a little like dying. When he’d stepped outside and watched Marcus walk away. When he’d seen his figure grow smaller and smaller. He remembers that, in that moment, he was sure he would never see the man again.

He takes Marcus’ face in his hands and pulls him close so his head can rest on Tomas’ breast. He runs his fingers over the short cropped hair and the sensation is so familiar it terrifies him to his core. He moves his hands down Marcus’ shoulders, trying to find something that feels new so he can stop feeling like he’s living a memory over and over, so he can stop being afraid he’s trapped inside of it.

Marcus looks up at him with watery eyes that shine in the lamplight. When he kisses him, it feels just as familiar. Did Marcus push him away? He thinks so, though he can’t remember if that was before or after now. Or perhaps not--he feels lips on his cheek, then on his mouth. He is kissing and being kissed. Stubble scrapes his jaw so he knows it’s Marcus, it has to be. He’s never kissed any other man, and if he is now, he doesn’t want to be. If he’s not kissing Marcus, he’ll pretend, just for a moment. He keeps his eyes closed until hands frame his face, cupping his cheeks. He knows those hands, he’s sure of it. He opens his eyes.

A heavy blanket keeps the worst of the chill out and the warmth between them does the rest. Tomas’ head rests on a lumpy pillow that he is sharing with Marcus, their lips close enough to be just barely touching. He can taste each breath, hot on his face; he doesn’t mind the slight sourness if it means they can be so close. Have they been sleeping? Or can they not sleep at all?

The room is so dark he can hardly see, but he can see Marcus whose gaze is fond. His fingers comb through Tomas’ hair, pushing back black strands from his face. It’s longer than he remembers, too long, if the tickling on his cheek is anything to go by.

“What time is it?” Tomas asks, his voice rough with sleep.

“Late,” says Marcus, “or early, depending on who you ask.”

“Why aren’t you asleep?” Tomas draws closer to Marcus so their bodies are sealed together in the warmth under the covers.

“You were having a nightmare, don’t you remember?”

He thinks to lie, he wants to lie; the truth will frighten Marcus almost as much as it frightens him.

“I’m sorry,” he confesses, bowing his head so he can rest it under Marcus’ chin. Tucked away like this, he doesn’t have to see the fear, the disappointment, the frustration; whatever Marcus is feeling, he doesn’t have it in him to face it. He barely knows what he’s feeling himself, other than the relief of familiar arms around him. They tighten after he speaks and he lets himself be held, allows himself to indulge in the feeling of strong hands running up and down his back.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. How many times has he said it?

“Hush,” Marcus tells him. His hands are steady and firm, anchoring him here. “You don’t have to be sorry. We’re going to take care of this.” 

Tomas feels skin on his cheek as Marcus shifts and the stretched and worn collar of his shirt sags. He kisses Marcus’ bared shoulder, his throat, his chin, anything his lips will reach. Marcus’ lips are pressed against his forehead, right at his hairline. It feels fatherly, but Tomas doesn’t want fatherly. He reaches a hand to slide it under Marcus’ shirt to grasp his hip, to pull him closer. Their bodies are pressed together so tightly Tomas half hopes he will melt into him and they can be one creature, with one mind and one heart. 

“Tomas…” Marcus warns as Tomas slides his hand down the back of Marcus’ sweatpants, feeling the fine hairs on Marcus’ lower back. 

“Marcus,” Tomas repeats back, firm, insistent. He kisses him again, but this time Marcus pulls away. 

“Tomas, stop,” Marcus sighs, placing a hand on his shoulder to hold him back.

“I’m sorry, I thought…”  _ I thought you wanted me too.  _ Maybe he does say it out loud because Marcus’ lips are on his brow and the hand that held him back is rubbing slow circles on his shoulder.

“You hardly know which way is up. It’s not right,” says Marcus. His voice is so kind. How long had Tomas longed for Marcus to speak to him with the same love and care he used on the souls they saved? Now that he is, Tomas misses his old ways, his rough voice and wry humour. 

“Do you even think this is real?” Marcus asks. 

“You’re the only thing that feels real.” 

The phone rings, loud and shrill. It splits his head in two and Tomas covers his ears with his hands.

“Hello,” says Mouse, sounding nothing like she’d just woken in the middle of the night. Perhaps she had not been sleeping at all.

“Yes, alright.” She turns on her bedside light and Tomas shuts his eyes against the sudden brightness. “One moment,” she tells the voice on the other end. He hears her get up and walk across the room, cracking one eye he sees her come back with the motel stationary and a pen. She tucks the phone back under her ear. “Alright, go ahead.” She scribbles and Tomas sits up, stretching. She only glances up at him for a moment before going back to her paper. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tomas sees his pillow. Three small, black stains marr its white surface. He quickly flips it over and rushes to the bathroom. He shuts the door, turning on the sink. Black is smeared at the corner of his mouth and under his nose. He scrubs at his skin with hotel soap and a washcloth until he is flushed pink and he feels raw but clean. He hides the blackened washcloth under a used towel. 

Back in their room, Mouse has hung up the phone and is getting back into bed. “Tomas, good. Get back to sleep,” she tells him. 

“What was all that?” Tomas asks, climbing back under the covers. 

“A new case,” she replies. “We have a long drive tomorrow.” She turns off her light and leaves them in the dark. 

“Where?” Tomas can’t help but press. 

“A convent, some girl they found,” she mumbles at him, already falling back asleep. Tomas leaves her to rest, though his own mind races. A convent, a young girl, now wasn’t that familiar? No, it wasn’t Casey he was remembering, someone else, something scratching at the back of his skull.  _ Gillian. _

“Gillian!” He calls at her from across the room. The rest of the party ignores him, but she turns to look, to  _ glare.  _

The living room is crowded, though there are less than a dozen guests. A Christmas tree dominates the far corner of the room and two children play wrestle on the floor. Gillian is dressed in a modest black dress and is wearing light up earrings with Christmas wreaths on them. She holds a tray of baked goods and guests smile and nod at her as they make small talk. She only approaches Tomas after she’s made her rounds, sitting beside him and offering him a cookie from her tray. He takes one shaped like a bell, although it turns to ash in his mouth.

“Look at her,” she says, sneering. Tomas sees Gillian across the room, still smiling and laughing with her guests. The Gillian beside him takes a cookie of her own, taking an angry bite out of it. Crumbs fall on her pristine black dress, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, too busy leveling her contemptuous gaze at herself. 

“You look happy,” says Tomas. 

“Do I?” Gillian snorts.

“You’re not.” Tomas watches more closely and sees the lines of exhaustion under her eyes, the careful way she navigates the room, not spending too much time on any single person, picking up empty cups and plates, refilling wine glasses. She is the perfect host and she is almost falling over. He watches her sneak off to the side, only a few feet from where he sits to slip off her high heels and hide them behind a potted plant. 

Just as Gillian is about to rejoin the party, an older woman, maybe in her sixties, appears in the archway to the living room. Her dark complexion looks grey and ashy, her skin dull and lifeless. Her brown eyes are glassy and unseeing. 

“Oh mama, did we wake you? You should be in bed,” says Gillian, putting a hand on the older woman’s shoulder.

“Gillian? Who are these people?” The woman’s eyes widen, distressed. The party seems to be slowing as more people notice her. A woman who looks remarkably like Gillian, probably her older sister, starts to step forward, but the older woman begins to wail. “What are they doing in my house!” 

Gillian shakes her head at the party in apology before taking the older woman in her arms. “It’s alright mama, let’s get you back to bed.” Slowly, Gillian coaxes the older woman back out of the room, her sobs slowly fading. The party stands still, guests stand frozen in place and they don’t start to mingle again until Gillian returns. Once she is back in the room, it is as if nothing happened, almost. 

Gillian’s sister takes her aside to stand near the potted plant where she’d so carefully hidden her shoes. “She’s getting worse?” her sister asks. 

Gillian nods. “I’m shocked she even knew me tonight.” 

“Early onset Alzheimer’s,” the Gillian beside him says. “After dad had his heart attack, she just faded.” 

Gillian’s sister sips her wine and gestures at the party. “Thanks for putting all this together, even with… you know…” She gestures upstairs.

“It’s fine. I’ve got the most free time, right?” Gillian smiles and Tomas looks over at the one sitting beside him who looks ready to tear her sister to pieces. 

“If you needed help—“ 

“Oh, of course, and subject myself to another one of her guilt trips,” Gillian snaps. She affects a whiny, nasally voice. “Oh I just  _ couldn’t _ not with the children and my Kevin taking up so much time, you know we both  _ work _ .” Gillian's’ fingers bury into the fabric of the sofa. “You know why I wasn’t working? So I could look after Mom because no one else fucking would. None of them could spare the  _ time _ . Like I didn’t have my own life, my own career.”

“You resent being taken for granted,” says Tomas. 

“Wouldn’t you?” Gillian glares at her sister as she walks back to rejoin the party, kissing a tall man in a striped shirt on the cheek, presumably Kevin. 

“You were able to be there for your mother,” Tomas points out. It’s the wrong thing to say. Gillian stands abruptly, the plate of cookies falling to the floor and shattering. The party is gone and they are alone in the room. 

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” she snarls. “You should go.” 

He wakes and chokes, struggling for air as he coughs vile. He rolls onto his side and vomits. He hacks and wheezes, a thin trickle of air finally making it into his lungs. He coughs and spits and gags until finally, when his vision starts to go dim, he can breathe again. He stays on his side, sucking in deep breaths through tar sticky lips.

His vision clears and his eyes have adjusted to the dark. He is in the room with the metal bed frame and the fireplace, though there has not been a fire tonight it seems; the chill cuts through his blankets. A dark shape stands at the end of his bed and even in that darkness, its eyes are still blacker than anything Tomas has ever seen. He sits upright, wiping his face on his sleeve. 

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I cast you out, unclean spirit!” Tomas rasps. The creature does not move. It does not even blink. 

“I command you, the power of Christ compels you, leave this place!” It is still. It does not flinch. Tomas’ is dizzy again, but he shakes his head to clear it, gripping the sheets in tight fists. 

“What do you want!?” he demands, his voice thin and weak.

Slowly, so slowly that Tomas isn’t sure at first what he’s actually seeing, the creature grins. It’s a horrible thing, to see something completely made of darkness grin with sharp white teeth so bright they cast the rest of the room in shadow. It is like a shark, those impossibly wide rows of knives in its mouth, if it could even be called a mouth. 

“Leave!” Tomas demands, though it does little good; the creature grins even wider, the white smile cutting its face in two. 

_ “You can’t compel me, holy man.”  _ Its voice sounds like it speaks with a mouth full of rocks, slow and grinding, with a wet tongue. 

“What are you?” Tomas whispers as it leers at him with its pitch black eyes. 

_ “I am everything you fear.”  _ Its mouth does not move when it speaks, that horrible white grin frozen in place. 

“You’re not real,” Tomas insists. “Where am I?” 

_ “You’re in a house by the sea. There is no one for miles. You’re alone. No one is going to save you.”  _ It’s unsettling the way the creature doesn’t move at all. 

“That’s not true! Marcus is—“ 

_ “Is he? Are you sure?” _ Its grin widens. The evil smile is almost larger than what might be considered the creature’s head. 

“Yes.”

The creature laughs and then it does seem to move, parts of it expand and contract, instant subtraction and addition, almost like a computer glitch.  _ “You really believe he came back for  _ you _? You don’t think he has better things to do than play nursemaid to a failed exorcist?”  _

“This won’t work. You won’t make me doubt,” says Tomas, his fists aching from his tight grip on the sheets. 

_ “I didn’t have to convince you. I know what’s already in your heart.” _

Tomas throws off his blankets. If this thing isn’t real, there is an easy way to prove it, and if it is… he’ll tear it limb from limb.

“Tomas! Tomas, it’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright.” 

Arms around him, holding him back, the bed frame squeaks and shakes with the extra weight. Marcus holds him down, his hand caressing Tomas’ cheek. 

“You’re alright,” Marcus tells him. 

Tomas’ mouth opens and what comes out is an anguished cry, his voice breaking at the end and trailing off into a croak.

“No,” Tomas says. “I’m not.”

Marcus’ hand is warm and rough on his cheek. He strokes him like he’s soothing a wild thing. Perhaps he is wild.

“You will be,” Marcus promises. He kisses him, nothing like his chaste kisses before on the cheek or the brow. His lips crush Tomas’ mouth, overwhelming him, one hand holding down his shoulder while the other clutches his face. It feels good, it feels solid.

This time when Tomas’ hands trail lower and push Marcus’ body harder against his, Marcus does not pull back. He murmurs encouragement into his mouth and presses down on him, their thighs tangled and locked tight.

“I need to feel…” Tomas breathes, his lungs aching as Marcus crushes him, laying on top of him. “I need you.”

“Yes, anything,” Marcus promises, licking into his mouth. It is when Marcus lets his hand wander down Tomas’ side, lower, to his thigh and then his groin, that Tomas realizes...

Tomas sits upright and lets out an ugly bellow, furious at being so easily tricked. The creature is back in front of the fireplace, cackling at his gullible nature.

_ “You think that some lustful urge will help you understand, that by fucking him you’ll be able to tell…”  _ It laughs even harder.  _ “And for that matter, you think he even wants you? You’re pathetic. No wonder he left.” _

“Shut up,” Tomas snaps, staring down at his knees. He clutches his head in his hands, covering his ears. “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!”

_ “I know what you’re hiding. I know every fear, every doubt, every sin.” _

“You’re not real!” He can’t block it out, no matter how hard he presses down over his ears. 

_ “I’m very real, broken priest. I’m real and I’m here to stay.”  _


End file.
